


The Old Rogue

by CorsairLord



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Family, Gen, Incest, Sibling Incest, What-If
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-06-01 07:50:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15138518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorsairLord/pseuds/CorsairLord
Summary: Daemon Targaryen died fighting the One-Eye over the God's Eye.Or that's what everyone thought happened before he returned to King's Landing to stand vigil over his son.They also thought the dragons had died.They did not.





	1. Chapter 1

_The Sixth Day of The Ninth Moon, 157 AC_

“What have you heard, Cowen?"

“Head knight say invasion in south. Led by a dragon, Princess.”

"A dragon? Well that's feckin’ horseshit. Ain't no dragons left but this ugly bastard. Ain't that right Sheep?”

Patting the snout of Sheepstealer affectionately, Nettles thought over what her ‘friend’ in the Gates of The Moon had heard.

“Cowen, our friend Wayn say this dragon’s name?”  
“Yes, my Princess.”

The man stood still as his large eyes blinked.

"Well what was it fer feck’s sakes, Cowen!?”  
“Daeron, my Princess.”

Nettles was about to let loose her full torrent of curses upon the loyal but simple man, when her love appeared.  
Her father.  
Her life.  
Her Rogue.

“What happened to the King, Cowen?”  
“Head knight say he died. Not fighting. In bed. Coward’s dea-”

Despite being six-and-seventy winters old, Daemon was still as lithe and dangerous as he was when he conquered the Stepstones, when he ruled the skies over the Seven Kingdoms and when he had done battle with the One-Eye.

“SHUT YOUR SAVAGE MOUTH BEFORE I CUT YOU IN HALF WITH YOUR OWN FUCKING TEETH! DO YOU HEAR ME!”

Nettles watched in fascination as her Rogue held Cowen by his goatskin jerkin and raged, for she knew what it meant that the King had died.  
Her half-brother and her love’s eldest son had left the world.

“Daemon. Put the daft fecker down, please?”

He turned to her then, his eyes that purple-black hue she loved seeing in the fire. But she saw something else. They were wet.  
Dropping the now scared-shitless Mountain clansmen, Daemon allowed himself to be wrapped into the embrace of Nettles and tried to blink away the tears.

“He's gone…”  
“I know.”  
“He's not supposed to die before me, Princess.”  
“No. But he did.”  
“I wish I could burn them all. Before the Dance.”  
“I know.”  
“I have to go. I...he needs to have another Targaryen stand over him.”  
“I know."  
Leaning back, she stared into the scarred and lined face of Daemon and saw that he was no longer taken by one of his rages.  
He was simply a father who had outlived far too many of his children.

“I'll take one of the ponies-”  
“Oh shut up, you old feck, we're taking Sheepstealer and seeing who the feck this Daeron is.”  
“Netty, I can't let you risk yourself like that. They'll have scorpions on the battlements.”  
“Good thing I do what I want, who I want, whenever the feck I want.”

He smiled then, that dangerous smirk that she was sure had broken the hearts of a thousand and one girls and had set the realm aflame.  
She loved that smile.

×××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××

_The Ninth Day of The Ninth Moon, 157 AC_

Lord Protector Viserys Targaryen stood vigil over his brother’s body as he lay in repose in the Throne Room of the Red Keep, opened during the day for those who wished to grieve for their king to do so.  
There was no great crowds like there would said to be at his Uncle or Great-Grandfather's passing. No, Aegon the Third was not beloved. But he was his brother, and Aegon had survived through the Dance and the Regency and he may have bent but he had never broken. He refused to. He tried hard to help the smallfolk, by the Seven he tried.  
If the blasted fools could not comprehend that, he pitied them for their ignorance.

“My Lord.”  
“Yes, Ser Robin?”  
“We've an issue.”  
“What is it?”  
“A dragon has been spotted, my lord.”

That caused Viserys to take notice. There were only so few dragons left after the Dance. Silverwing, Cannibal, Sheepstealer…  
Anyone of them could cause untold destruction to King’s Landing.  
No. They would not destroy what precious little trust his brother had created among the smallfolk again.  
He would handle this, and he would either ride for the first time or he would slay the beast.

“Where is the King and the Prince and Princesses?”  
“I've taken the liberty of having them kept in Maegor’s Holdfast alongside Her Grace. Five of my brothers are guarding them, including Ser Aemon. I brought Ser Landry with me. We shall accompany you, my lord.”

Viserys found himself thinking once more that his Mother had always had the right of it. The Darklyns and the Lansdales were a credit to the White Cloak.

“No...no, I will not risk two loyal members of the Kingsguard to protect myself. Rally the Goldcloaks and have them start gathering waterbuckets and loading the Scorpions. If any give you grief, you will remind them who gave them those Goldcloaks and you will remind them who you are.”  
“I...very well, my lord. Good luck. My King.”

Bowing to both Viserys and the body of King Aegon, Ser Robin Darklyn, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and Ser Landry Lansdale left to do as their Lord Protector bade.

“I'm sorry, Brother. I…I'm so sorry. I have to go. I'll return...or I'll see you very soon. Tell Mother I love her.”

Leaving the Red Keep via horseback, Lord Protector Viserys rode his horse Lohar hard. If it died, he did not care, he despised Lohar and since the man was already dead, this was the closest he could get to killing him. As he did so, he saw it in the distance. A huge, graceful thing. It seemed to almost dance in the air.  
He hated it.  
Reaching the Old Gate, he practically leapt off of the beast and drew the only recently returned blade, Dark Sister. He wasn't much of a swordsman but he knew that only valyrian steel had a chance against dragon scale. Looking around he saw one of the Captains of the Goldcloaks, hiding in the gatehouse.

“You, your breastplate, helm and shield.”  
“Who the fuc-”

All at once the Captain saw who it was, and in between his attempts at apologizing and groveling helped Viserys put on his breastplate and helmet, and strapped on his shield.

“Go join Lord Commander Darklyn and Ser Lansdale at The King’s Gate, they'll have orders for you. And leave your Goldcloak. You'll have no need of it after today.”  
“Yes, Your Grace, thank you, Your Grace, Your Grace is kind.”

Leaving the poor excuse of a Goldcloak behind Viserys strode out of the Gate and stared as the beast came closer.  
He was terrified. Petrified almost.  
But he would not falter, he would not.

“Māzigon kesīr! Bow iā pryjagon, kesā daor zālagon bisa oktion lēda dracarys!”

As he shouted the words in the tongue of his ancestors, he beat Dark Sister against the face of the shield, and made himself clearly seen. The beast would acknowledge him.  
As it seemed to hear him, it started to slow to a glide before it landed almost the length of the Throne Room away from him.  
He could see it clearly then. Brown and dappled, the colour of dirt and mud. So it was Sheepstealer. At least it wasn't Cannibal or Silverwing. Both were far bloodthirstier and he would feel wrong killing his Great-Grandmother's dragon, even after the Dance.

“You're a feckin’ brave one you know that? Everyone else, runs. You? You stay and shout shit at Sheep.”

From atop the dragon, an older but comely woman with dark brown skin and black hair called down to Viserys. Behind her a man in fine black scale armour stared at him, and Viserys could swear that he saw a flash of purple behind the visor of his greathelm before he focused his attention on the foul-mouthed rider.

“I will not allow a dragon to burn my city, or it's people. If it means we must fight, I'll gladly do it.”  
“Fight? No, fer godssakes we're here to help. Name’s Nettles and this is-”  
“Prince Daemon Targaryen, Son of Prince Baelon Targaryen, Brother of King Viserys Targaryen, Husband of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen and Father of Lady Rhaena Targaryen, Lady Baela Targaryen, King Aegon Targaryen the Third, Prince Viserys Targaryen the Second and Nettles. Might you be one of the Goldcloaks I trained? You seem to have a bearing I am familiar with.”

Viserys stared in shock as his father-his father-lifted his visor and stared down at him. He was far, far older than he remembered and seemed to be ever more scarred, but beneath it all, there was still that great and terrible man who had helped bring him into the world, the Prince of The City, The King of The Narrow Sea, The Rogue Prince.

“I-I should. I am Lord Protector Viserys Targaryen, Brother to His Grace Aegon the Third...Father.”

Removing his helmet, Viserys let his long silver-gold hair fly free and met his Father’s eyes. The same dark purple as his.  
Climbing down from Sheepstealer’s neck, Daemon slowly crossed the distance to his son, his age seeming to come back to him all at once.  
As the two men stood in front of each other at last, Daemon carefully gripped the sides of Viserys’ head and stared at him.

“You've always had your mother's eyes. Far, far too kind for our line, my son.”  
“I can't remember if she had kind eyes.”  
“She did, it was one of the few things kind about her.”

Daemon embraced his son then, for if there was one thing he had painfully learned during the Dance was that there was never enough time. Or there was too much.

×××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××

_The Ninth Day of The Ninth Moon, 157 AC_

“All hail His Grace, King Daeron, First of His Name, King of the Andals, Rhoynar and First Men, Lord of The Seven Kingdoms, Protector of The Realm!”

It was quite a sight, Daemon decided. His grandson was ever so regal in his black and gold armour, but it resembled the One-Eye’s armour too much for him to like it. At the very least, Daeron was unquestionably a King, especially wearing the Conqueror’s crown. Gods, how heavy those rubies must be.

“He's a handsome lad.”  
“Of course he is. He's my blood.”  
“You're so fulla shit, love.”  
“Possibly.”

Daemon and Nettles watched as the King ascended the Iron Throne, that great monument to the Targaryens. The thing he had once coveted so dearly, he japed at the death of his nephew. He never regretted what he had said, only the effect it caused to his brother, Viserys. Good, laughing Viserys.

“Think he's had a go at a girl yet?”  
“No, not yet. Give him three years and he'll have fucked Daena and Rhaena.”

Nearby he heard one of the more nobleborn ladies gasp lightly and stare at him in disgust.  
He didn't care, they were Targaryens.  
They were made from the blood of Gods, and Gods did as they pleased.

“Maybe I'll invite him to my chambers after this.”  
“Good, teach him a thing or two while I find us a few friends.”  
“Ha. A few. I love it when ya lie.”

Upon reaching the top of the Iron Throne, Daeron situated himself as well as he could and began to speak.

“My Lords and Ladies, today is a bittersweet day. For today, we recognize the death of my father, King Aegon. He was a good man, and a good king and to me he instilled the virtues of ruling these Seven Kingdoms of ours and in keeping the peace. Alongside this, we welcome back a legend, my Grandfather, Prince Daemon Targaryen! Upon hearing of the death of my father, he and my aunt, Nettles, rode the dragon Sheepstealer here, to stand vigil over my father's body, not knowing that he had had any children or that his other son, my Uncle Viserys had returned to us. And so we welcome them both back with open arms! Grandfather, would you like to say anything?”

At this Daemon stepped forth from the crowd and scanned the room for any faces he recognized from before. He saw none. Yet more proof that he had lived too long.

“I suspect all of you are too young to remember me from before the Dance or even during the Dance, so I will clear things up. I am Prince Daemon Targaryen, once King of The Narrow Sea, once Rider of Caraxes the Blood Wyrm, once Husband to Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen and slayer of the One-Eye. Every horrible thing you have heard of me, is most likely true. Every great thing, the same. I have lived to see my family and friends kill themselves, so I will make this abundantly clear: If you harm a Targaryen, I will show you how I slew the One-Eye, how I won the Stepstones and how I started the Dance of Dragons. I am Prince Daemon Targaryen, now and forever, a dragon.”

Most seemed shocked at such bald and brusque words, with only three people clapping; Nettles, Daena and Daeron.  
Oh yes, they were his blood.

“Thank you for your honest words Grandfather, I am sure I will rely on you in the times to come. Speaking of which, My Lords and Ladies, do you notice whose crown I wear? Not the yellowgold crown of Aenys the First. Not the gold and gem covered band of Jaehaerys the Wise, nor the simple but elegant band of gold and brass that my Father wore, no. I wear the Conqueror’s crown, made from valyrian steel and rubies. A metal made in dragonfire, and gems made of the Gods blood. That is what Aegon the Conqueror forged the realm out of. But he never had a chance to finish the Conquest because the Dornish killed Meraxes and imprisoned Queen Rhaenys the Kind. Tortured her, and then threatened to rape her with knives if Aegon did not cease his war! Then they held her prisoner for the rest of her days and caused so much grief to my ancestors’ heart that he died far too early! I say we finish what Aegon the Conqueror started and unite all of Westeros under the banner of the Iron Throne! I say we conquer Dorne! Who is with me!?”

To say that the crowd roared with approval was an understatement, they practically caused the whole of the Red Keep to shake with their voices. And above it all, the Conqueror come again lorded over all of them, with a smile and kind eyes that belied the cruelty that the war would cause.

×××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××

_The Ninth Day of The Ninth Moon, 157 AC_

“Uncle, I do not why you are so against my plan.”  
“Because, Your Grace-”  
“Uncle. I am still the boy you made read Septon Barth’s Unnatural History as punishment for pulling his sister's braid. You will always call me Daeron.”

His Uncle’s face softened at that and he watched the rest of his Councilors busy themselves with other matters and prepare their own tirades against him no doubt.

“Daeron, I am against this because it is an unnecessary risk. King Aegon the Conqueror, Warrior Queen Visenya and Queen Rhaenys the Kind atop the biggest dragons the world had and the Stormlands and the Reach behind them were not enough to conquer those blasted sands. It cost the King and the realm dearly. We do not have dragons, and the realm is just now recovering from the Dance. Please. Do not do this.”

Daeron appreciated the sentiment of his Uncle and understood it but…this had to be done, it had to be. It was unfinished business of the Targaryens and he would see justice for Rhaenys Targaryen and Orys Baratheon. He would ensure that Dorne would break before the Iron Throne’s might.

“You have a dragon. He stands before you.”

The Small Council looked in shock at such boldness, and at how proud the King said each word. He believed it.  
From behind the King, a clapping came, along with a laugh that was rough yet lyrical.

“By the Seven, my Grandson, you are my blood. Brash, reckless and fearless. You'll have more than one Young Dragon however. You'll have Sheepstealer. My Netty and I, we'll be with you. If you're not afraid of competing with an old Prince and your Aunt for glory?”

Daeron turned around and saw his Grandfather, still clad in his black scale armour and his sword still at his side. Daeron had permitted him to sit in on the Small Council as an advisor as well as a show of welcome.

“Only if you're not afraid to lose. I would be glad to have you and my Aunt with me.”  
“As would I, My Prince.”

The Small Council turned then to the Master of Ships, Lord of The Tides Alyn Velaryon-The Oakenfist. The King’s uncle by marriage and the Prince’s son in law. Brother to Addam Velaryon, he was famed for his loyalty to both his brother’s memories and the Targaryens. Having married to his late aunt Baela, Lord Alyn was a staunch supporter of his Father and his Uncle, and now himself. Daeron admired the man no small amount.

“Alyn? Alyn Velaryon? Hahaha! So some good men survived the Dance! It is very good to see you.”

Daeron watched as his Grandfather embraced Alyn and smiled heartily, while his Uncle Viserys smiled as his cousin and Father embraced. To Daeron’s eyes it was just and right that two people he admired were friends, as well as such loyal men.

“Indeed it is, My Prince. I just wish Baela could have been here. She would have loved to have seen you meet Addam, Corlys and little Daemon and Laena.”  
“She passed…the Gods are cruel, why?”  
“Her health was never the same, My Prince, after the Dance with Sunfyre and she caught fever after she gave birth to Daemon and Laena. She passed peacefully.”

Daemon seemed to shudder at that, but he composed himself once more and offered a smile to Alyn again.

“So you married her? That is good, your family has always been loyal to the Targaryens. Especially your brother, father and grandfather. I'm sure you made her very happy.”  
“I would like to think so, My Prince.”  
“He did, Father. Baela loved you very much, Lord Alyn. Very much.”

Alyn smiled somewhat sadly at that while Daeron began to write down something that struck him in that moment. Something that would no doubt please his Uncle and Grandfather, while strengthening the realm.

“Lord Alyn, have you promised Addam to anyone yet?”  
“No, My King. You know as well as I do, Addam would never allow himself to be promised to a girl whose heart he hasn't won himself. The boy is the best parts of his Mother and myself. Sadly that means he's proud, bold and completely fearless.”  
“There is a reason why I had him named my Master of the Hunt, Lord Alyn. Grand Maester Munkun would you send this to Oldtown, preferably as quickly as possible. I do believe that it has been too long since I've seen my Aunt Rhaena. Wouldn't you agree, Uncle?”  
“Indeed, Daeron.”  
“Oldtown? Why the fuck is my daughter in the Reach? With those thrice-damned Hightowers?”

Even in his old age, Daemon still held no small hatred for those who shared blood with the Green Queen.

“Ahh, Grandfather, she is married to the heir to the Hightower, Garmund. Her first marriage to Ser Corwyn Corbray was unfruitful and Lord Unwin Peake sought to broker peace in the realm by marrying her to Garmund. I have heard theirs is a marriage of love. She is pregnant with her fourth, I believe.”  
“Fifth, Daeron. Merlyna was fourth.”  
“Ahh thank you, Uncle.”  
“Peake? That green cloaked bastard? He who was there at Tumbleton where they killed Roddy the Ruin and his Winter Wolves? Why the fuck was he allowed to make decisions regarding my daughter?!”  
“He was a part of the Council of Regents that ruled while Aegon was still in his minority, Father. He made several questionable decisions during his time. Unfortunately, none would allow a single regent such as Lord Alyn to rule and thus he stayed until twenty-two years ago.”  
“He's said to be of poor health as of late.”  
“He will be of poorer health after Netty and I burn Starpike and Whitegrove.”  
“Grandfather, I cannot allow you to burn anyone. As much as I would like to, my Father managed to form a tenuous peace between the powers of the realm and I cannot allow you to destroy that. However…he has a single heir, and I will grant him the honour of being commander of my van. There are more male Peakes of less dubious origin in the Dustonbury branch anyway.”  
Most seemed to at least agree with the assessment that Lord Peake had long been a thorn in the side of the Throne for far too long, the only one who seemed discontent with the decision was Lord Tygett Lannister, second son of Lord Jason Lannister and Master of Coin.

“Your Grace, we cannot willfully send a man to his death, especially the heir to House Peake. It-it is dishonourable to the extreme and sets a dangerous precedent.”  
“We can and we will. Remember, Lord Tygett, your family still has yet to regain the trust of House Targaryen, and the Iron Throne as a whole. If you decide to go against the Iron Throne, I assure you that one of your cousins would be more than happy to take your place, serve with just as much skill, all while never working against the Iron Throne. All while you nobly take the Black.”  
“Y-your Grace, I assure you that I would never, ever work against you, or the Throne. I simply wish to voice my disapproval of this plan. That is all, Your Grace.”

Nodding slowly, Daeron turned to his Grandfather and looked at him expectantly.

“Do I have your word you or my Aunt will not burn anything without my permission, Grandfather?”  
“Yes. As long as you do as you say.”  
“I will. You have my word on that.”  
“Thank you, Grandson. For both things.”  
Daeron smiled again, that radiant smile of his.  
“Of course, we are blood.”

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_The Ninth Day of The Ninth Moon, 157 AC_

“Feck, that was amazing.”

Nettles rolled onto one of the nearby pillows at the foot of the bed as she felt the King’s seed roll down her tits.  
It had been easy enough to convince him to take her to bed, especially when she played with his hair and asked to see his dragon. After that it was simply a rush to remove his armour and to show him how to really make a woman happy. After he had given her such a nice ride, she generously suckled on his cock until he filled her mouth with his seed and painted her tits white.  
Even now he was still stiff as a rod and she was tempted to ride again, but between flying from the Griffin King’s Roost and walking around the massive castle and fucking her nephew she was bloody tired.

“Yes, it was, Aunt. That…was the most fun I've had in a long while.”

He heaved and leaned against the bed’s backboard as he replaced the Conqueror’s crown upon his head.  
Even naked and sweaty he looked everso regal and proud.  
Pulling a small black book from under the bed, Daeron found a good quill and unopened inkpot in his drawer and began to jot several things down.

“Whatcha writin’, Daeron?”

Looking up, he saw Nettles sitting on her knees, gathering his seed on her fingers and licking it off.

“I am adding more to my journal of the events of today.”  
“Oh? I'm worthy of being put in the King’s little book?”  
“If I'm worthy enough to lay with one of the few surviving heroes of the Battle of The Gullet, then I'm sure she's worthy enough to be written of.”

Nettles smiled at that and turned onto her side, and looked at the mess of her clothes on the floor, next to the mess of his armour.

“Will your White Cloak tell your Father about us?”  
“Who, Aemon? No, no. My cousin is the best Kingsguard a King could ask for. Kind, loyal, brave, discrete and faithful to a fault. My Uncle plans on giving Dark Sister to him at the Tourney that will be held in a month’s time. It is unlikely he will lose.”  
“Hmm. Y'know your armour looks like the One-Eye’s.”

Daeron looked up from his journal and stared at the armour on the floor.

“You mean Aemond the One-Eyed? Yes, you would know. He wore this crown too, and was said to say that it looked better on him than it did Aegon. Did you ever face him?”  
“Me? Feck no, he rode that big black she-beast Vhagar. No way was I goin’ near that kinslayin’ mad bastard after he killed Prince Luke. Daemon though…Daemon killed that bastard over the Gods Eye. Stuck Dark Sister through that empty socket o’ his. Lost Caraxes though. That big red dragon was one of my Prince’s only friends. Missed him somethin’ evil.”

Daeron laughed at that, at the strange crude and coarse way she talked. He did it not out of any mocking sense but of the absurdity of it.

“Aunt, you are a fascinating woman. I'm glad you and my Grandfather lived through that dark time.”

Nettles rolled onto her stomach then and stared at Daeron with her brown eyes peering at her new King and couldn't help but agree.

“Aye, me too. I like livin’. ‘Specially if it means I get my Prince and I get to feck a King.”  
“What does he think you are doing at this time, anyway?”  
“Uh, this? What, you thought he didn't know I was comin’ to ride you? Nay, he knew. Me an’ Daemon have an understandin’. We feck whoever we want, when we want as long as we can still say we love each other afterwards. He's probably feckin’ a few of his other bastard daughters right now in Flea Bottom. Either that or lookin’ fer any of his old Goldcloaks.”  
“He should have told me, I would have told him where City Commander Daemon Largent was. They would have certainly have gotten along.”  
“Who?”  
“Commander Luthor Largent’s son. Luthor was a Goldcloak loyal to my Grandmother and my Grandfather and tried to stop the Storming of The Dragon Pit. He said ‘Daemon gave us these cloaks and they're gold no matter how you turn them.’ before he slew Gwayne Hightower to prevent Hightower from splitting the Goldcloaks between the Greens and the Blacks. He and Ser Balon Byrch were two of the City Watch Commanders slain during the Moon of The Three Kings. Ser Garth the Harelip helped raise Ser Daemon Largent with money provided by my Father. And yes, Luthor did name his son after my Grandfather.”  
“Huh. Well that's nice.”  
“Aunt, may I ask you a…delicate question?”

Nettles nodded slowly, wondering where exactly that line of thought was going.

“Did you and my Grandfather ever have…children?”  
“Why do you want to know?”  
“I would wish to legitimize them, or if you and my Grandfather have wed, meet them and know my cousins.”  
“Oh. Well, no. We haven't. I'm barren as the Iron Isles.”  
Daeron looked ashamed then and turned back to his journal.  
“Oh. I am sorry. I did not know, truly.”  
“It's fine, I don't mind much anymore. Would I liked to have my own little Targaryens runnin’ around? Yeah. But I've gotten over it and learned to deal with it. Sides, once we found out from a blind Maester, Daemon stopped pullin’ out and started fillin’ me up.”  
“Ha! You are a crass one, Aunt.”  
“Course I am, born and raised at the Lusty Dragon on Dragonstone. Silver-haired and purple-eyed pale skinned beauties far as your cock can reach. My mam was an exotic beauty from Volantis, and knew how to please everyone just right, and apparently caught Daemon’s eye. Took her, two of the finest and purest blooded whores in the brothel and fecked them silly for a day and a half. Too bad she ain't around anymore, we coulda stopped by Dragonstone and had a repeat.”

Nettles sat upright and got up from the bed and walked over to Daeron.

“Want me to gobble your cock one more time before I go find out where the feck me and Sheep are sleeping tonight?”  
“Well you can stay in one of the rooms here in the Red Keep and Sheepstealer can stay at the ruins of the Dragonpit. As for myself…please, show me how your mother caught the eye of the Rogue Prince.”  
“Oh I feckin’ love it when you talk dirty…My King.”

Getting on her knees on a pillow she stole from the bed Nettles began to stroke and gently suckle on Daeron’s cock as he watched in awe.

Pulling her mouth off of him, Nettles smiled wide and nuzzled him close to her face.

“This is what she called, Swallowin’ the Sword Down To The Hilt.”

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_The Tenth Day of The Ninth Moon, 157 AC_

“Aegon, Naerys this is your Grandfather, Daemon. Father, these are my children. And this…is Daeron, their son.”

Viserys lifted the small round babe to his chest and let Daemon look at him.

“Daeron is it? Hello, little dragon. I am your Great-Grandfather. Yes, that is my hair. I'm quite glad you enjoy it so much. No, I would not eat it. And you have eaten it.”

Viserys looked amused at the way his Grandfather looked upon his Grandson. It pleased him to think that his father had somewhat mellowed with age. To his family at least.  
Moving away from the babe he looked on at his grandchildren.  
Aegon looked near as much like his own father did, handsome and tall, with a light beard and short hair, silver as moonlit waters. Naerys was the true beauty however, slender and small, skin as pale as porcelain and lovely bright purple eyes, with silvery hair like a shimmering waterfall.

“Hello lad, lass. It is my pleasure to meet the both of you. It's been so very long since I've been around so many of my blood.”  
“Thank you, Grandfather. Father told us stories of you and Grandmother when we were little. It's fantastic to have you returned to us. And on a dragon’s back no less! Haha!”

Aegon held out his hand to Daemon, but Daemon batted it away and embraced his grandson tightly. Aegon reminded Daemon almost too much of his brother, and Daemon hoped that Aegon would be as kind as Viserys was.

“Greetings, Grandfather. You are just as Father described you.”

Turning to Naerys, he gently wrapped his arms around her as well, before stepping back and holding her by her shoulders.

“My, aren't you beautiful. Your Grandmother would have been jealous of you. And by your words, I assume Viserys has described me as an elderly scarred man? A shame that, I had hoped he describe me as a dashing warrior atop Caraxes over the Stepstones. Oh well.”

Naerys smiled shyly at her Grandfather's jape before sitting back down on the nearby chair and motioned for her father to carry Daeron over.

“So Aegon, tell me of yourself. I hear you enjoy hunting and hawking to no end?”

Daemon guided his son out the door as Viserys sat down next to Naerys.

“You seem quiet, my child.”  
“He continues on with Stokeworth, Father. Even after you married her to Ser Lothston. He barely holds Daeron and is more concerned with having his fun with that blacksmith’s wife and Stokeworth.”  
“I'm sorry my child. I had hoped-”  
“What? That he would change? That he would stop laying with every woman who smiled at him prettily? No. You knew what he was like. You forced me to marry him, and you knew. He could have married any number of women from Westeros or Essos. He could have married Stokeworth or one of Uncle Alyn’s cousins. He could have married one of Mother's relatives even. But you made him marry me.”

Viserys turned away from his daughter then and looked at his Grandson, Daeron.  
He was a little pudgy babe, but a happy and smart one. Even now he was walking and making sounds that sounded vaguely like words.  
Viserys had hoped that with Daeron’s birth, that Aegon would learn to love Naerys and his child, as well as be kind to them. But he hadn't. He was still the boy playing at being a man.  
It was also hard to ignore the rumors surrounding his Grandson’s birth. That Aemon was the father, rather than Aegon. Even he could see from where the rumors stemmed.

“Naerys...May I ask you a hard question?”  
“Yes, Father?”  
“Is…is Daeron Aegon's son?”

Naerys stilled then, while Daeron continued to toddle around the room.

“No.”  
“Aemon’s?”  
“Yes.”

Viserys took her small, delicate hand then and rubbed it with his thumb as he watched his grandson walk towards them.

“I will never tell him or anyone my child. That is my vow.”  
“Thank you…thank you, Father.”

×××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××

_The Eleventh Day of The Ninth Moon, 157 AC_

“My Prince is very kind and generous.”  
“Please, sweet thing, I am neither of those. We both know I simply enjoyed your body so very much.”  
“Ahh, but why then did you leave me with so many dragons?”  
“So if I've gotten you with child, you can care for it properly in case I've gone and died. Goodbye sweet thing, I'll be seeing you.”

Receiving a blown kiss the whore, Briony, had sent his way, Daemon reaffixed his cloak and sword belt and began his stroll down into Flea Bottom proper from the Street of Silk. He found that starting here and meandering through King’s Landing would give him the best possible view of the situation here, as well as give him time to think.  
His grandsons that he had met so far all seemed very much like himself and his brother, save for Baelor who was said to be as pious as a Septon and his shadow, Aemon, who Daeron had generously offered as protection as he walked through King’s Landing.

“Aemon, you haven't said a word since we've visited the Silken Hand, what is on your mind?”  
“Nothing, My Prince. I am simply trying to see what may be a threat to your safety.”  
“Bullshit. And stop calling me that, I'm your Grandfather, Aemon. You're not saying anything because you think I'm dishonorable for laying with sweet Briony hmm?”

As Daemon walked down the slope that led into Flea Bottom, he looked back at Aemon, arrayed in white plate and mail with his greathelm adorned with a gold dragon still atop his head. He was, as ever the consummate Kingsguard.

“If you wish the truth, then yes...Grandfather. As I am to understand it, you are promised to my Aunt, Lady Nettles and as such it seems low to be with another. I also find your offer of procuring a woman for me…unbecoming of a Kingsguard and a Targaryen.”  
“Lady Nettles? Aemon, you are fuckin’ hilarious. Nettles is no Lady. She's the daughter of a whore, raised on Dragonstone to suck cock and take it. The only reason she has ever risen above that is because my wife, your Grandmother wanted dragon riders and Nettles earned Sheepstealer’s trust. Now, that is not to say I do not love her. She is my daughter and lover, after all. I care for her deeply. But she understands what she and I are. We're Targaryens with no claim to the Iron Throne and no future hopes. So we fuck and fight and fuck anyone and everyone. As for offering you a whore, don't act like all Kingsguard and Targaryens have been pure as your cloaks. Take Lucamore Strong. Fucked sixteen women and had sixteen children. Take your Grandmother Rhaenyra. Fucked Breakbones and had Luke, Jace and Joff.”

Aemon stopped dead at that before swiftly walking to catch up to Daemon.

“Grandfather, what you say is treason-”  
“What? To say that the three were Strongs? Aye, they were Strongs. And good boys. Only treason there is, is to say that they weren't. I loved them and if any had survived I would have married my daughter, Rhaena to him. They were brave, loyal and honest. When they died, their mother died just a bit more, and I took Aegon the Usurper’s son and brother away from him because of it.”  
“I uphold myself higher than that Grandfather. I am a Kingsguard of His Grace, King Daeron the First. To do such dishonor would dishonor the Kingsguard and His Grace. I will not have any stain upon those, be my own.”  
“Well if that is what you truly wish and believe. I respect you for it. You're a good man. If you've nothing else to your name when you pass, they will remember that you were a good man. But I doubt that. Ahh, look the Goldcloaks. Come, Aemon we'll see if any remember me.”

Wandering over to the watchhouse near the beginning of the Flea Bottom, the pair were made known when one of the Goldcloaks spotted the three-headed dragon and White Cloak.

“Bend ya knees men, that's The Prince of The City you see.”  
“Garth? Garth you ugly bastard is that you?”

Looking up from his kneeling position, an older man with an almost cut-like deformation running through his upper lip smiled at Daemon and nodded before responding.

“Aye, Commander. I'm still alive, somehow.”  
“Haha! I'd have thought you would have been killed for being too frisky with one of Madame Lucina’s women without paying.”

Rising from his feet, Garth and Daemon brought each other into a one-handed embrace and clapped each other on the back.

“Nay, I ended up with Lucina. Had me a few little ‘uns. These here are my lads, Luthor and Balon.”

Stepping forth, two Goldcloaks with the same bald head and green eyes as their father stepped forth, smiling as they met the hero of so many tales their father told them.

“Ahh good thing they look nothing like you. That'd be a waste of Lucina’s good looks. You lads know who you're named after?”  
“Yes, Commander. Ser Luthor Largent, Commander of The City Watch and the Gate of The Gods.”  
“And Ser Balon Byrch, Commander of The River Gate.”  
“Aye. Aye. Good and loyal men. I trained them and your father. Who I expect is now the Commander of the City Watch, yes?”  
“Nay, Commander, not as such. Just the Commander of The Dragon Gate.”  
“What? Why the fuck aren't you the City Watch Commander? You're the most experienced one of all. I should know, I trained and knighted you myself.”  
“After the Usurper came back to the city, he and his greens wanted our heads, sayin’ ol’ Luthor had something to do with Helaena’s death. Weren't true but still. And they knew me and the lads declared for Queen Rhaenyra-may she rest with the Seven-and wanted us out. But they knew that while we'd never win in a real battle, we could kill him and as many of his friends as possible ‘fore we were killed. So it was a standoff. We were preparin’ one last charge on the Red Keep to kill the fucker when we got word of the Lads approachin’. Sent out a rider and told them where to come to sneak into King’s Landing. ‘Fore they got here though, Lord Corlys Velaryon-may he sail with the Seven themselves-took care of that black hearted bastard. May the Seven Hells roast him like he did Queen Rhaenyra. Afterwards, well the Hour of The Wolf came and went, and Lord Cregan Stark put one of Roddy the Ruin’s bastards in charge of the City Watch and he took to it like a fish takes to the Blackwater. Since then, I've helped Luthor’s wife, Gwen, raise his son and well, he's our new Commander. Commander Daemon Largent. Good man.”  
“So Luthor had a son? And named him Daemon?”  
“Yessir. He loved ya, Commander. We all did. He killed Hightower and told them that they were your men. Always will be. We remember who gave us these Cloaks. Still can't believe it's been a week since ya came back, Commander. City just hasn't been the same without you. The whores got lonely and us Oldcloaks started telling tales about you to the newboys. Now they think you're back from the dead and wondering when you'll put the Goldcloak on again.”  
“Well you'll have to wait a while longer, my friend. Our King Daeron is going to conquer Dorne. And me and love intend to help him take it. If you've any young lads of sufficient age and mind, I'd be willing to squire them.”  
“As would I, Commander Garth. I've yet a squire and I would like to pass on my small yet possibly valuable knowledge onto one willing to learn.”  
“Garth, this is my Grandson, Ser Aemon.”  
“Aye,I know who he is, Commander. The Dragonknight, The Knight of Tears. Tis an honour to meet you, Ser. If you'd be willing, I've a third lad only two and ten winters old. His name is Luke and he's been itchin’ to see the world.”  
“Aemon?”  
“It would be my pleasure to have him squire for me. I'll send a man for him in a week, and have his arms and armour supplied for him.”  
“That, that is most generous of you, Ser. Thank ye. He'll be most happy once I tell him.”  
“Of course, Commander Garth.”  
“So,Garth, how's the city been since my son, Aegon became King?”  
“Truth of it, Commander?”  
“Always, Garth.”  
“His Grace, may he find peace with the Mother, was never much loved by most. Some knew why he was always so sad, like me and the older ones, but the younger ones called him the Dragonbane and such. We wouldn't have it of course but the people thought he did nothing for them. He tried, Commander, he really did. But seeing yer mam killed like that and what with you being gone…he was a sad man. But he did help this city. Helped it mightily. Gave a good chunk of the treasury to the Goldcloaks and let us hire more men and train them better. Repaired the Royal Fleet and hired men for that. Gave money to the Septons and Septas and the orphans. While most of the city won't mourn him longer than a week or two, me and those who knew who he was and what he was like? We'll miss him. For he was our King and he was yer and Queen Rhaenyra’s son. I'm sorry he's gone, Commander. Ya would have been proud of him.”  
“Thank you Garth. Truly.”  
“Course, Commander. I remember who gave us these cloaks. I remember who knighted me. And I remember who gave me enough money to raise my friend and Commander’s son. Long as I've breath in my body, I'm yer man.”  
“And a credit to the cloak, Garth. I'm glad I put it around your shoulders.”

×××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××

_The Eleventh Day of The Ninth Moon, 157 AC_

“Addam, I wish for you to meet my lovely Aunt Nettles, and my revered Grandfather Daemon. Aunt, Grandfather this is my cousin and friend Addam Velaryon.”

Daeron had outstretched his hand to his best friend Addam and watched as he held his head high and shook his Grandfather's hand and kissed his Aunt’s.

“My Prince, my Lady. It is an honour to meet you both. My father and mother told me much about you.”  
“So I've heard, Grandson. You look so much like Addam of Hull did. Take it as a compliment, for he was what all men should strive to be.”  
“So he does, Daemon. I bet you anything all the maids and servants at High Tide dream of liftin’ their skirts for him, eh?”  
“Oh assuredly, Aunt. Once there was a particularly infatuated washergirl-”  
“Daeron! You swore on Blackfyre you'd never say a word about that!”  
“So I did, Addam. So I did. Needless to say, Addam here has never been…well keen on servants of any kind. Not because he thinks he is above them, but because she scared him away for good.”

Addam held his head in his hands and chuckled a bit before he sat next to Daeron across from Daemon and Nettles.  
They were currently have an early luncheon in the King’s Quarters before Daeron would make his first rulings over matters of the smallfolk until the bells of the septs rang seven times, just after the sun had set. It was a practice popularized during Jaehaerys the Wise’s reign and Daeron sought to bring it back. One of the reason’s he had invited Addam to lunch with him was so that he could meet Daemon and Nettles.  
Now there was a minor issue.  
Since their first coupling, Nettles had visited Daeron’s chambers twice over the week, the second time with a lady of the night from the Silken Hand named Briony, who Nettles claimed was already assured of her future should she decide to lay with the King. As time went on, Daeron had recognized he had become mildly infatuated with her and had begun to feel strangely troubled by it. He knew she was not his to love and that it was simply something fun for the both of them. It did not help that the last time he had been with her, she and Briony had stayed the night, meaning that he woke up to Nettles warm body pressing against his, which sent his mind reeling with dreams of repeating that.  
But he had considered it a closed matter for he had already decided he would not allow his infatuation to grow, and would concern himself with matters of the realm and his plans for the Conquest of Dorne, until such a time as he was to be wed.  
Of course, he would never refuse her company in bed, but he would never her seek her out.

“Your father tells me that you have already earned command of a ship, Addam. What is she? A galleon or something else?”  
“Ah, the Moondancer. She's a two masted longcog. My father hired several hundred Ironborn shipbuilders from Lordsport and offered a noble name and castle to any who could successfully fuse a longship and cog together. Master Urrag Lordsail was the one to design it, and Moondancer is the second one to be built like it with ninety-eight and four hundred on the way. My Father’s second ship Seasmoke is the first.”  
“Moondancer…that was Lady Baela’s dragon wasn't it Daemon?”  
“Yes it was, Nettles. That dragon killed Sunfyre, slowly but surely. It is a good name, Addam. So how did you earn command of it?”  
“Oh, now this is a tale, Grandfather. Addam, start in Driftmark, before Hull.”  
“But of course, Daeron. So a year ago while Daeron, Baelor and Daena were visiting my family, Daena wished for one of the black pearls that sometimes grow inside the clams in the Gullet. Sadly, she was confined to her room for calling Lady Stokeworth a whore in front of Ser Lucas Lothston. And of course, she was prepared to sneak out of her room and out of Driftmark to accomplish her goals, but King Aegon had made her promise him that she wouldn't get into trouble while they were visiting. So of course, she turned to Daeron and I. Being the noble squires of the realm we were, we vowed to retrieve a black pearl for Daena. And so we both snuck out of Driftmark under the guise of visiting Spicetown for the day. Unbeknownst to us was that Daena, while fully believing in us, had less faith in our ability to get the ‘right one’ and followed us disguised as a servant girl. Unbeknownst to all of us at that point was that Baelor had overheard us and had promptly told Queen Daenanera. So off we were, being tailed by a Princess and followed by worried men-at-arms all with us having a three hour headstart.”  
“And then we arrived at Hull.”  
“Oh yes. The first thing we did was visit Uncle Addam’s grave and pay our respects. As the people of Hull have taken excellent care of it, a few recognized us when we arrived to do so, leading to us being hoisted to the tavern-The Blue Dragon-and having many a mug of mulled wine handed to us. Following that particularly fun detour for an hour, we mounted once more for the Gullet, only an hour away. Upon mounting our horses however we found ourselves so entirely drunk we rode the wrong way, smack into Daena, who then proceeded to insult our manhood and wits and lead us the right way. Finally sobering slightly upon reaching the Gullet, we stripped down to our smallthings and began diving for pearls. As we did so, a ship bearing the scorpion of Vunatis of Bloodstone sailed in through the mists of the Gullet and dropped anchor to resupply at Hull before leaving to raid the Northern and Vale ports. So it was extremely unlucky that Daena had just found a black pearl when she surfaced and was seized by pirates. Now, Daeron and I observed this as they pawed at her and began to plot what to do to her. With courage fueled by anger and wine, we charged the pirates with our swords in our smallthings and slew two of them before the entire crew of forty came upon us. As luck would have it, it was at this time the men-at-arms came bearing down on us and helped to slay the pirates. I myself slew Vunatis in single combat aboard his ship and was knighted by my father for my valorous actions and accomplishments in killing a Pirate Lord before he made me scrub each of the Velaryon owned ships’ decks for three weeks. At the conclusion of it, he told me I had scrubbed my own deck and gave me my command.”

Daemon leaned back from his wine and nodded while smiling broadly at Addam while Nettles clapped across from him.

“Now that's a tale for the ages, Addam. I'm sure the feckers had no clue what the feck was happenin’ when you and Daeron charged them in yer skivvies. I'd love to sail with ya on Moondancer, she sounds a lovely ship.”  
“Of course, My Lady. I'd be glad to have you aboard.”  
“Grand. Maybe our Young Dragon can come with us as well, I'm sure he'd like to see where me and Prince Jace managed to cause a Triarchy boat to explode with our dragons.”  
“Indeed I would, Aunt. If I remember it, the Triarchy shattered because of how many losses it sustained during the battle.”

“Aye, it did. But they still captured my son and stole his dragon egg, and Lohar kept him as a hostage until the Rogares found him and then Oakenfist helped pay his ransom. If Sharako was still alive, I've had put a price on his son’s capture.”

Daemon looked especially bitter at that, and Daeron remembered that despite his Uncle being in his life since the first day, his Grandfather had not had the same fortune.

“So Addam, do you wish to hear some news that should delight you?”  
“Yes, Daeron?”  
“My Aunt Rhaena and he daughters are coming to King’s Landing in three days time, and I've heard that our cousin Saera Hightower is rather intrigued by the young captain Addam Velaryon.”  
“Saera Hightower…I remember when she was two-and-ten and we were but six and she visited King’s Landing. She gave me a book about the Velaryons before the Doom. How we were the Targaryens Masters of Ships and related to the Qoherys and Celtigars through fair Velaryon maids.”  
“Indeed. I was also remembering when she was eight-and-ten and we were two-and-ten and snuck into their apartments to watch her and her sisters Aelinor and Margaery bathe."

Addam’s cheeks went a bright red at that causing Daeron to chuckle softly while Daemon and Nettles laughed at his embarrassment.

“Well, how did they look, Addam?”  
“I can't seem to recall, my Lady.”  
“Oh spoilsport. Daeron?”  
“Oh Saera was beautiful, her skin the colour of snow and hair as blonde as the sunlight. Her breasts were shapely and seemed to still be growing while her behind was very nicely rounded and shaped. Her legs were long and her thighs were quite thick but were just thin enough so that you could see her womanhood very well when she bent over. Her sisters were much the same, with slightly darker hair and smaller breasts but that was a very good day.”  
“I bet. So this beauty of Hightower is intrigued by Addam, Daeron?”  
“Oh yes, Grandfather. Apparently once the story of us taking on the pirates reached Oldtown it had been conflated to a whole fleet and had Addam and myself fighting them with our bare fists on top of the deck of the ship in the middle of a storm wearing nothing at all. Alongside Addam’s prowess with a blade and missions to Lorath and Volantis, he's gained no small amount of fame.”  
“This is all a moot point, really. Even if Saera is…intrigued by me, unless I can court her properly and win her heart I will not ask of her to become my wife.”  
“Do not worry, Addam. She'll doubtlessly fall in love with you, only to regret it later when she learns your one true love is for the sea alone.”  
“Oh why thank you ever so much, Daeron.”  
“Addam, if you wish to win her heart, ask my daughter for advice when she comes to King’s Landing. Rhaena has always had a way with people.”  
“I will, My Prince. Thank you for your useful advice, unlike some.”  
“Here's my advice, Addam: Get her nice and hot for ya, kiss her a little, give an excuse for why you must leave for a bit and leave then come back later. Give her something to get her smallthings all wet and messy so she's soppin’ when you feck her. It's what worked for me and Daemon.”  
“Ah, thank you, my Lady. I will be sure to do that.”  
“Good. Say Daemon, why don't you tell them how you slew the One-Eye? That's your favorite story.”  
“Indeed it is, Netty.”  
×××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××


	2. Chapter 2

_The Twenty-First Day of The Ninth Moon, 157 AC_

“That them?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Didn't think they'd arrive with a whole feckin’ army.”

“The Hightowers are cautious. After all, wouldn't you be if you knew I wanted to burn you to cinders?”

Daemon smiled that cruel smile at her again, the one she'd seen when he'd gone to fight the One-Eye. It made her think about that big bloody bastard Cannibal’s look when it was hunting. Calm as a lamb, but fierce as fire. 

“I wouldn't be stupid enough to piss ya off that much, Daemon, ya know that.”

“Very true. The polite thing to do would be to wait for them at the gates of the Red Keep.”

“And the rude thing?”

“Why, mount Sheepstealer and meet them on the road.”

“Sheep it is.”

Making their way to the bottom of the collapsed Dragonpit, Nettles and Daemon saw the big brown dragon lounging in the morning sun, atop a small mountain of sheep bones and a few carcasses. 

“He's been well fed.”

“Well of course. He missed the fat Stokeworth sheep, didn't you, Sheep? C’mon, lets go flyin’. We have some friends to meet and some arseholes to terrify shitless.”

Patting the side of Sheepstealer’s head gently, the big beast opened it's left eye and focused it on it's rider and the older blood who frequently rode with her. Slowly, he stretched and let loose a small roar before settling down and offering his neck and shoulder flank to help the two climb on. 

“Thank you, Sheepstealer.”

“Thattboy. Let's go.”

Settling into position, Nettles patted Sheep twice on his neck and held onto him as he ran across the ruined Dragonpit before climbing up the side of the wall and running off the side of Rhaenys’ Hill, his great wings sending them all skyward far above the city. 

“Up and above the castle high, they danced. And with a great resounding cry, they were lanced.”

“Whose that one about, Daemon?”

“The One-Eye and Prince Luke. It's a damn lie but it's a good poem.”

“And you decide that now ya just goin’ to start mumblin’ it?”

“Yes.”

As the riders and dragon edged closer to the caravan of Reachmen, Nettles wondered what it would be like meeting her sister would be like. From what she had been told, Lady Rhaena Targaryen was everything good about the Targaryens with none of their famed downsides. And the way Daemon had always described her as Rhaenys Targaryen come again was nothing to scoff at either. She didn't know much about history before she met Daemon but growing up on Dragonstone, a woman knew three things: Good Queen Alysanne was the Mother in earthly form, Queen Rhaenys the Maid and Queen Visenya the Crone. 

So her expectations were high to say the least. 

“I think they've seen us, Daemon.”

“Good. Take him down, Netty?”

“Alright. C'mon Sheep, show them who ruled the skys.”

Roaring with renewed vigour, Sheepstealer dove low to the ground and swooped over the Hightower knights heads before rising once more and landed not a few feet from their horses before throwing his head back and roaring once more for good measure. 

“If they make a wrong move…”

“I know, Daemon. Roast the men, not the carriages.”

“Thank you, Netty.”

Sliding down off of Sheepstealer, Daemon walked towards the knights, now struggling to keep their horses from fleeing from the titanic lizard that saw them all as big sheep. 

“What is the meaning of this!”

“Why simply a friendly greeting, Ser…?”

“Garmund Hightower! Who are you?!”

“Oh, I am-”

“Really!? He's wearin’ black armour and ridin’ a feckin’ dragon behind me! And you still don't know?! He's ya goodfather, you stupid idiot!”

The armoured knight seemed almost offended by her words, before he remembered that she was currently sitting on a dragon. 

Turning back to his good-father he rose his visor and smiled shakily.

“Oh! Er, he-hello Lord-”

“Prince!”

“-Prince Daemon. I didn't expect you to…greet us this way.”

“And I didn't expect my daughter to have been married into a traitor’s family. You learn to become used to such unpleasant surprises. Where is my daughter?”

Nettles leaned back and observed Daemon in top form then, as the Hightower seemed to shrink from the dragon. 

“She is in the first carriage with our four daughters. I will have a man gather her-”

“No. I wish for it to be a surprise. Stay here. Netty, make sure you're goodbrother isn't too distressed by Sheepstealer.”

“Yes, Daemon.”

She watched as Daemon carefully walked past the knights and toward the carriage before turning back to the now sighing knight.

“So yer a Hightower?”

“Uh, yes, Mi’lady.”

“Mi’lady? Ha! I ain't no lady. Just cause I ride Daemon and Sheep don't make me a lady. But anyways, was goin’ to ask, how're you related to the Green Queen and Otto?”

“Queen Alicent was my cousin and Ser Otto Hightower my great-uncle.”

“Huh. You're one of Ormund’s sons ain't you?”

“Yes. Lord Ormund was my father and a good man. I miss him dearly.”

“Heh. Sure, think that. Just don't let Daemon hear ya say that. Hated the Green Queen, hated her sons, hated Otto. But he liked Roddy and his Winter Wolves. They never met but Daemon talked to that man ‘til the First Tumbleton. But don't worry yer pretty Hightower head. If you've made Lady Rhaena happy, Daemon will forgive ya for being a Hightower.”

She watched as the knight shifted uncomfortably at the fact that he would have to be forgiven for simply being born, but nodded all the same. 

As she looked back towards the first carriage, she saw Daemon embracing a rather round silver haired woman, along with several silver and blonde girls. As they made their way back, Nettles made sure that Sheepstealer wasn't getting too antsy and rubbed that spot behind his left, broken horn that made him rumble.

“...and this will be Baela. Ah husband! How did you and my father get along?”

Nettles saw that while her sister was indeed heavily pregnant, it wasn't hard to see how she had gotten that way. Her face was like Daemon’s but softer and with a smaller nose, and a gentle look to her. Her breasts, while no doubt helped by the pregnancy, were large and quite well sitting on her chest. She seemed almost delicate in her movements, with an almost prenatural grace. This was not all, for it seemed that she was able to calm he husband as soon as he saw her, as well as the other knights arrayed alongside him. 

All in all, Nettles was so far convinced that this woman was all she was made out to be. 

“Fine, my wife. I was simply surprised by his and Lady Nettles arrival atop…the dragon.”

“His name is Sheepstealer, husband, if I remember my past right. And you! You must be Nettles! It is very nice to meet you, I have heard so much about you.”

Daemon leaned close to his daughter's ear then and whispered something and nodded his head before Rhaena looked at Nettles again.

“And you are my sister! Then it is very nice to meet you! These are my daughters, Saera, Aelinor, Margaery and Merlyna.”

Nettles observed the smiling woman and the equally smiling girls and found that she was at an almost loss for words before she remembered she should say something. 

“It's nice to meet you too, Lady Rhaena. Daemon speaks very highly of you often. I'm, uh, glad to see he wasn't wrong.”

“Why I hope only good things, sister. Father always had a tendency to exaggerate.”

Rhaena smiled wider then while Daemon affected a look of…of almost wistfulness at that. It was a strange thing, to see a man so content to leave his past behind settle almost comfortably in a memory.

“Oh of course. Always.”

“Very good, very good. May I...may I approach Sheepstealer? It's been so very long since I've seen a living dragon. I've missed them.”

The Hightower looked at Rhaena as if she was insane, before a sharp look from the woman made him remain silent, if near apoplectic.

“Uh, yes. Just, approach him slow, no sudden moves and wait ‘til I have him rumblin’ while I rub his favorite spot, alright?”

Rhaena nodded vigorously and waited for the dragon to begin rumbling, which it soon did when Nettles rubbed the spot behind his broken horn once more, calming the dragon. 

Slowly, Rhaena approached, Sheepstealer’s left eye watching her approach as she carefully made her way to his side, gently laying her palm on the side of his long neck. 

Sheepstealer knew that the young blood touching him had once had rode one of his kin, one that no longer lived given how very faint the scent was, and he knew that this young blood was kin to both his rider and the old blood. He knew that this young blood meant him no harm and instead allowed it to pat him.

“You're an old dragon aren't you? You were born during my great-grandfather’s reign. You outlived them all. Even The Cannibal and Silverwing haven't been seen in years. Even my Morning died some years ago.”

Stepping away from Sheepstealer, Rhaena had tears in her eyes and rejoined her daughters before her Father enveloped her in a hug, Nettles barely able to make out his words. 

“It's alright, I know. I miss Caraxes every day. They gave us wings and it is a terrible thing to lose them.”

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_The Twenty-First Day of The Ninth Moon, 157 AC_

“Sister.”

“Brother! Oh it has been too long. Far, far too long.”

Viserys embraced his older sister then, gently and thanked the Gods that he still had one sister in this world. 

“Indeed. He would have been so very happy to see you, Rhaena.”

Both knew who Viserys was referring to as he spoke softly into his sister's ear. Aegon was seldom happy, but his family was one of the few things to ever cause him to smile.

As they broke apart, Ser Garmund Hightower stepped forth and offered his hand, the man attempting to be as civil as possible with his good-brother.

Thankfully for him however, all the ill will towards the Hightowers that his father possessed, Viserys had very little of, and all of it was reserved for dead men. 

“Garmund, it has been quite a while. How is Oldtown?”

“Well enough, Viserys, well enough. Your sister and nieces keep me busy thankfully.”

“Indeed, I'd imagine so. Where are they anyway?”

Sitting on the padded chair nearest the window of the private meeting chamber of the Tower of the Hand in the Maegor’s Holdfast, Rhaena motioned out the window, where down in the courtyard were her four daughters, talking to her nieces and nephews, including the King. 

“In the courtyard it seems. Being charmed by our King, Baela’s son Addam and your son, Viserys.”

At that Viserys remembered what Naerys had said and his smile turned into a frown.

“Is something the matter, Viserys?”

Hs turned to his good-brother then, and while he detested revealing inadequacies of his family at all, especially to people who were not of his blood, he knew this was something that needed to be said. 

“My son…I love him. He reminds me of our Grandfather, Viserys the First. He is dashing, brave, humorous and lives with such vigour that I doubt even Father could have matched him in his youth. But he is also a whoremonger. A man ruled by his lust, and a poor husband and a poorer father. That I made Naerys marry him, I may always regret. He would have been better as an Uncle and Brother. As an envoy to distant vassals and Princes across the Narrow Sea. Your daughters, Saera, Aelinor, Margaery perhaps? Keep them away from him. Because if you don't, he'll charm them and beguile them and what begins as a dance in the hall ends as a night of passion in his room. Trust me on this. If anything direct them towards Daeron or Addam, perhaps Baelor if they can manage to pull his nose out of a book.”

He turned away from his sister and good-brother at that, and poured himself a glass of Dornish red, something that had already began to increase in price with the coming invasion.

“And you allow his behavior to continue?”

Viserys rounded on his sister then, a displeased look displayed on her face.

“Sister I have done everything short of sending him to the Wall. I remove his mistresses, he goes whoring. I forbid him from leaving the Red Keep, he beds the visiting noblewomen. I order him to not leave his chambers, he is caught with two maids in his bed. The boy is ruled by his passions.”

The room remained silent then as the three stewed in what had been said, before Garmund broke the silence. 

“Saera at least won't be charmed. She's been infatuated with her cousin Addam for a while now. Aelinor is promised to Ser Sam Tarly, Lord Tom Tarly’s son and my good-sister’s nephew. And as for Margaery…she's shown no interest in men in the slightest, preferring to handle sums and numerics alongside the clerks at the Bank of Oldtown. So hopefully, nothing will happen.”

“I hope so as well, Garmund. But enough about such matters. Tell me about the Reach, you two.”

At that, Rhaena leaned forward and leapt into a lively retelling of all that had been happening since she had last visited her brothers, of the rebuilding of the towns and castles nearly being completed, of the Bank of Oldtown growing, of the recent Houses on the rise in the Reach-Roxton, Oakheart, Rowan and of those on the decline-Peake, Osgrey Strickland.

As she spoke, Viserys found himself wondering what it was like in these kingdoms the Targaryens ruled, past the gatehouses of King’s Landing and the shores of Dragonstone. Perhaps one day, he would do as his great-great grandfather did and lead a royal progress throughout Westeros.

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	3. Chapter 3

_The Twenty-First Day of the Ninth Moon, 157 AC_

Daemon sat beside his grandson at the feast for his daughter and the Hightower procession, the first of several to be held in the weeks that would lead to his other grandson’s formal coronation by the High Septon, in front of all the great and mighty lords of the realm. 

And for the life of him he was mystified by his grandson.

 How could a boy of three-and-ten be so very entranced by the Seven Pointed-Star of all things. 

“Are you certain you do not wish to dance with your cousins or sisters, Baelor? It's not terribly hard, especially with a partner who knows what they are doing.”

Baelor looked up from the book and smiled kindly at his grandfather before he shook his head. 

“I'm certain grandfather.”

“Very well. You remind me of an uncle of mine, Baelor. I only met him once, but he too was very much devoted to books rather than people. Even preferred the book Elysar gave him over actual women.”

“Vaegon Targaryen, Archmaester of The Citadel, and of Mathematics and Economics. He was a Maester, grandfather. I wish to be a Septon.”

That startled him.

Targaryen women had been Septas of course, his second favorite aunt-after his aunt Saera, who he had visited in Volantis more than once-was Maegelle, who was possibly the kindest woman he had ever had the pleasure of meeting. 

But a Prince? It was simply not done. 

To be a Maester when there are several ahead in the line of succession and the dragons were plentiful and the Targaryens undisputed was one thing, but to be a Septon when there were so few Targaryens, a single dragon and after a disastrous civil war was quite another.

“But you can't be a Septon, Baelor. You're a Prince, Daeron’s heir until Daena reaches the age of maturity and gives him sons. And even then you'll still be a Prince of the Iron Throne, and a Targaryen.”

At that Baelor looked displeased and saddened before turning to his brother and sisters and cousins dancing alongside his uncles, aunt and the many members of the court. 

“Why does Daeron get what he pleases and I do not, grandfather?”

“Do you mourn your father Baelor?”

Baelor looked deeply distraught at that and turned away from his family and towards his grandfather.

“Y-yes.”

“So do I. So does Daeron. Do you know how old my brother was when he became King? Six-and-twenty. Our father had died, our mother died young. But we had Grandfather. He loved us. We had aunts and cousins. They loved us. We dreamed of being Kings. But when Grandfather died, Viserys wept because Grandfather was the best King the lands had seen, and he didn't want him to go, he didn't want to be King. A man at six-and-twenty wept because he was afraid of failing where our Grandfather succeeded and because he wasn't ready for him to go. Daeron is a boy of five-and-ten. This isn't what he wanted. He wanted your Father to live. This is what was chosen for him, Baelor. No good King wishes to be King. They are forced to be Kings.”

Daemon took a sip of his mulled wine then, before he looked at his grandson, finding his vision blurred from tears.

He wasn't used to thinking on his brother, aunts and Grandfather often. They had loomed large on his life when they lived and he had desperately wished to be free from their shadow. Now he wished he could live in their shade. 

“Grandfather?”

“Yes, Baelor?”

“Why was Father always so sad?”

Daemon sighed deeply then, and wondered what to tell his grandson. 

The truth? Or the story that had been told since his son ascended the Throne? 

“He lost his brother and his dragon, Stormcloud, in the same battle. He watched his mother-my wife and niece-eaten by that big golden monster, Sunfyre. His father abandoned him, like the coward he is. He lived a lifetime worth of loss and grief in but a few years. It affected him deeply. Make no mistake, Baelor, your Father was the strongest man you ever knew. Not me, not your brother or uncles. Your Father. Because he lived with so much grief for so long, and all the while he ruled, and ruled justly and fairly. The people may never love him, history may be unkind to him…but never doubt that he was the among the best of the Targaryens, alongside Aegon the Conqueror, Jaehaerys the Conciliator, Viserys the First and Rhaenyra the Realm’s Delight.”

Baelor sat there for a minute or more absorbing what his grandfather had said before he rose and walked towards the dancing, turning back after a step.

“I think I'll dance Grandfather. Like Father did with Mother, when he was happy. Like when little Daeron was born and Father held a feast for them.”

“That sounds a good idea, grandson.”

As he watched his grandson walk away, greeted by his family, Daemon looked into his cup of mulled wine and saw his countenance staring back at him.

Old, scarred and tired.

“You were supposed to die above the God's Eye. ‘Twas the only thing the One-Eye had ever been true about. You have lived too long.”

Perhaps that was his curse, for being an Oathbreaker, a Kinslayer. 

To outlive them all.

Viserys, Baela, Aegon, Rhaenyra, Mysaria, Laena…

Daemon took a final look at his own reflection before he finished the cup and left the hall, quietly and swiftly. 

His grief was his alone.

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_The Twenty-Second Day of the Ninth Moon, 157 AC_ __

Daeron’s head was still tender after the feast the night before, and while the waters of the Blackwater were calm, the rocking of the ship still made him uneased. 

Thankfully he had his sister to keep his mind off of it, as they sat in his Uncle’s Cabin aboard the Lord Addam, Driftmark and Dragonstone only a few hours away at the leisurely pace his Uncle had decided to take.

“Grandfather's strange, Daeron.”

“Well of course he is, Daena, he's from a different time almost. When he was our age, there were as many Targaryens and dragons as there were ship’s in the harbour of King’s Landing.”

Daena rolled her eyes at him at that, and began fiddling with the pendant their Father had left her as her inheritance. It stood apart from her black dress, and sunlight seemed to be drawn to it. 

“No I mean...he doesn't seem like Daemon Targaryen, Lord Flea Bottom, Prince of The City, King of the Narrow Sea. He's not like the stories Uncle Viserys and Aunt Baela told us. Or like the septas taught us.”

“He's not because he was young when he was that man. He's old, Daena. He's tired. We're lucky to even be able to talk to him, to have him in our lives.”

Daeron looked at his crown as he spoke, something that his Grandfather had once been said to lust after so much that he was compared to Maegor the Cruel and even Aegon the Usurper’s grabs for power-except that he had died before he could claim it. 

Now however, he seemed almost repelled by it, all but renouncing any claim on the Iron Throne in favour of supporting him. 

“And to have Aunt Nettles and Sheepstealer with us.”

He noticed the sly smile on her face then and sighed, knowing that she, indeed, already knew.

“Daena, when Mother said you were a terror, that wasn't meant as a standard.”

“Neither was it when she said you were charming when you gave your first speech at Aemon’s Kingsguard ceremony.”

“Well, I suppose this is where you blackmail me with the threat of telling Mother what I and our aunt have been doing and in exchange for you not telling Mother and her shaming me until I am old and grey, I provide something to you, correct?”

“Mmhmm. I want two things. One: bring me back something nice from Dorne.”

Daeron nodded at his sister then, already planning on doing that anyways, but decided to keep that part to himself. While it certainly wasn't going to be a pleasure trip, he did plan to wage a quick and efficient war, despite how much bluster and brashness he had displayed in front of the masses.

“And two?”

Daena seemed to grow more serious then, but smiled kindly, closer to their Mother's kind smile than her usual cunning smirk.

“Two: Make me your Queen when I'm old enough.”

Now this truly befuddled Daeron, as this had always been the plan to his knowledge, that it was assumed that he would marry Daena and they would rule as King and Queen. 

“Daena, I always planned to marry you.”

“I don't want you to just marry me because you're expected to Daeron. I want you to marry me because you love me. The same way Aegon loved Rhaenys, the same way Jaehaerys loved Alysanne, the same way our great-grandfather loved our great-grandmother. I want you to marry me and make me your Queen of The Seven Kingdoms and I want everyone to know that you are mine and mine alone and that I am yours and yours alone.”

He realized then what she meant, what she truly meant as he looked into her eyes, sparkling like amethysts. 

She wanted him to be in love with her, to be his everything.

“I will. I will Daena. I promise you that. I love you.”

She smiled brilliantly then, and before he could smile in return, her arms were around him then and he had to hold onto the nearby table to keep them from tumbling over in his chair. 

He returned her embrace then, as warmly as he could. He held her there for a minute more than he had intended, her breathing focusing his mind on something else beyond the rocking of the ship. 

As she finally broke away from him, she returned to her own chair and slumped into it, one leg over the side of it, reclining like a cat who got the cream. 

“I went to the Dragonpit last night. Before I went to sleep.”

That startled him out of his quiet happiness, quite rudely as well. 

“Why?! There's a reason Grandfather, Uncle Viserys and Aunt Nettles told the court that anyone who goes near Sheepstealer will likely be killed: its because he will probably kill them!”

“I wanted to see him, Daeron. Father never let us see Morning or the last dragon Uncle Viserys had had hatched.”

Their father seemed to hate dragons, Daeron had realized young. It was the only time he could remember such hate in his Father's voice, when Daeron had tried to see Morning when his Aunt Rhaena visited. 

Even the mention of the Regency Council only made his Father colder and harder than normal, especially whenever his Aunt Rhaena’s second marriage or when they had sieged Maegor’s Holdfast was mentioned in his presence.

“There was a reason for that, Daena. What if you had died? What if Sheepstealer had eaten you? Like Sunfyre ate grandmother? I-I would have to have him driven off, or even killed. Not to mention how Mother would have received the news!”

“He's the last dragon. He's the only one left. Dragons and Targaryens go hand in hand, I had to see him. And he was amazing.”

The awe in her voice was palpable, but Daeron could not shake the feeling that this was a dangerous idea. 

“I'm sure Balerion the Black Dread was amazing as well, but no one except for the strongest of Targaryen Kings claimed him for a reason. Our great-aunt did not die a good death when she left him to his own devices. Dragons are dangerous creatures, Daena. So please, promise me you won't go near Sheepstealer again without Aunt Nettles. Please.”

Daena seemed disappointed by her brother's words but nodded, happy that he had conceded that she could see Sheepstealer if her Aunt was with her.

“I promise.”

“Thank you, Daena. Perhaps one day I will ride Sheepstealer or my egg shall hatch. Do you still have yours?”

“Of course. I may not carry it around like Elaena does, but it still sits in my room, by the hearth. Do you think Sheepstealer might be able to make them hatch? The eggs?”

Daeron wondered that himself then. Septon Barth had noted that dragon eggs always seemed to hatch better and the dragons stronger when they were heated in dragonfire. They could hatch without it of course, but Barth had noted that Vermithor and Silverwing had been hatched in Balerion and Vhagar’s dragonfire and grew large and fast, as well as being more amenable to other dragons and Targaryens.

Perhaps he should have pulled Elaena’s braids more often, he might have been made to read more.

“Perhaps, Daena. I'd like that very much. What would you name your dragon?”

“Syraxes. After grandfather and grandmother's dragons. You?”

“Seastorm. After father and uncle Addam’s dragons.”

The two Targaryens wondered and dreamed then of the dragons that might still have slumbered in their eggs.

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	4. Chapter 4

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_The Twenty-Third Day of the Ninth Moon, 157 AC_

 

Daenaera looked out from the deck of the Lady Baela as the ship was being loaded with her and her eldest nephew's things, her son having granted him a suite in the Red Keep to stay in. It made sense really, given how alike the two were, it was likely that Daeron had rather his cousin only a few doors away instead of on an island in the middle of Blackwater Bay. 

Her son looked all the part of a king, a Valyrian king specifically, dressed in a deep black doublet, dotted with aquamarine circles at every pinned point. Blackfyre hung from his sword belt, it's large ruby hilt inset glittering in the sunlight, while the Conqueror's Crown sat just so on his head, a single lock of his gold-silver hair hanging over it just so. 

Knowing her son, he probably did that on purpose. 

Already she could tell what type of king he was, as he watched the dockworkers of Driftmark load the Lady Baela, occasionally helping to lift one of the crates or thank one of the many workers leaving. Many bore similar features to him, so perhaps he saw them as distant kin in a way, but she thought it more than that. 

Her Aegon, her beautiful, sad king had not been loved by the smallfolk. She knew why of course, but it did not change the fact that they did not love this ever-grieving man who never smiled in public. He had saved those for the special occasions, and loathed to be away from his family-to such a degree he had not left the Red Keep in the last six years without at least three of them at any one time.

But her son, oh her happy and charming son, was so free with his smiles, his laughs, his happiness even. He was ever filling the Red Keep with his laughter, something her husband encouraged and brought joy to him. 

He looked up from the workers then and smiled at her, before waving to her.

She happily smiled back then, for it was the only thing she could do.

He turned back to the workers then, still smiling. 

Hearing footsteps approach her, Daenaera turned her head then to see her nephew Aemon approach her. 

 

“Aemon, nephew, how do you do?”

 

“Very well, Queen Daenaera. The King requested I guard you while the ship is loaded.”

 

Daenaera shook her head lightly then, leaning on the ship railing to look at her nephew.

Or at least his eyes, as he was wearing the full enameled white helm topped with three dragon heads his Uncle and Father had made for his appointment to the Kingsguard. 

 

“Ever formal it seems, nephew. Please, it's Aunt Daenaera to you. Did my son truly think I needed to be guarded here, on my cousin's ship, while it's docked in on my family's island?”

 

Her nephew sighed from within his full helm and shook his head slightly.

 

“I cannot say what His Grace thinks, only that I was ordered to guard yourself, Que-Aunt Daenaera. Though in truth, I believe he simply wished for me to keep you company while Princess Daena is visiting Hull with our cousin Addam, and Lord Alyn is visiting his other children.”

 

“That's a good thought, Aemon. So tell me, how fares King’s Landing since I...since Aegon passed and I took leave?”

 

“The city fares well, Aunt Daenaera. It has been lively with the arrival of Grandfather and Lady Nettles, as well as Ser Garmund and Lady Rhaena Hightower. More still in regards to the upcoming tourney and coronation of the King. Father stood vigil over Uncle Aegon, and he, Grandfather and Daeron lit his funeral pyre. If you wish, I can show you were his ashes are before we reach Dragonstone-”

 

“No. No. I would much rather remember my husband as the kind and just man he was. Not what he was after. What is your Grandfather like?”

 

She blinked away the tears at the thought of her Aegon not being whole once more, at being nothing more than ash, before noticing that her nephew had not yet answered.

 

“He's…unlike any man I have ever known. He seems always moments away from drawing steel, only to make light of a situation. At the same time he seems both far younger than a man his age, while also so…ancient. When no one looks, he seems to have an extra hundred years on his face, his stance, his stride. He cavorts with whores, knights, cutpurses and lords in the same day and manner. He curses and quarrels like a pirate with lords, and speaks finely and elegantly like a prince with Goldcloaks. When he's not in the Red Keep, he is in Flea Bottom or the Dragon Pit with Aunt Nettles. He tells stories of his brother, his Grandfather and stepsons, daughters and friends happily and with such liveliness it is as if I were there when King Jaehaerys knighted him and gave him Dark Sister, but he speaks seldom of himself during his Conquest of the Stepstones or during the Dance and when he does it is usually as a threat or a warning. He desires to meet you, I have heard.”

 

That surprised her. She had not heard as such from Daeron or Daena, all they had told her of their grandfather was how amazing he was, how he seemed to have stepped forth from their Aunt’s stories. 

 

“He does? Why?”

 

“My Father told me about it yesterday. He had met Grandfather walking alone, in the Tower of The Hand. Grandfather asked after Uncle Aegon’s wife-you-and Father told him. Grandfather wishes to know more about Uncle Aegon. And since he already asks Father about him, he wished to speak to you. He…he has outlived two of his children and he seems to wish to know what they were like. He reminds me of Uncle Aegon in that way. How he seems to be more when he is nearest his blood.”

 

“I would happily speak with him then. Perhaps he can tell me of my husband before the Dance.”

 

The Dragonknight stayed silent then, watching his King, wondering if he would have been able to save his Grandmother. 

The silence was interrupted when Aemon’s squire, Luke Hare came up the deck’s stairs, his newly made hobnailed boots alerting the pair. 

He was a large lad, almost at Aemon’s eye level, with the same features as his two older brothers, barring his head which had a mop of unruly blonde hair on top of it. 

 

“Ser Aemon, Queen Daenaera.”

 

The boy bowed low then, as his father taught him to when in the presence of nobility and royalty.

 

“Rise, Luke. Aunt Daenaera, this is my squire, Luke Hare, son of Ser Garth the Harelip, Commander of the City Watch and the Dragon Gate. His father served under Grandfather and was knighted by him, and I've taken Luke as my squire.”

 

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Luke. My husband oft mentioned your father whenever he recounted his minority to me. It is good that King’s Landing is protected by such loyal men.”

 

At that the squire seemed to be almost embarrassed by such praise for his father, before remembering the proper manners of a knight. 

 

“It is my honour to meet you, Queen Daenaera. My father, he spoke highly King Aegon. Said Prince Daemon and Queen Rhaenyra would be proud of him. I-I am sorry he passed, Queen Daenaera. Truly.”

 

She smiled prettily at him then, at the sincerity of his words. Hopefully he would keep that sincerity with him. She knew from experience that not all knights were good or honest. 

 

“Thank you, Luke. It warms my heart to know my husband had supporters amongst the people of King’s Landing.”

 

“So Luke, what have you come for?”

 

Turning to his appointed guardian, Ser Aemon, Luke produced a small brown package from the space between his chestplate and his doublet that Princess Daena had given him in Hull and the reason he had returned to Ser Aemon.

 

“Princess Daena asked me to give this to you, and when I said that you had charged me with guarding her and Lord Addam, she ordered me to bring it to you. On pain of making me feed Sheepstealer.”

 

Daenaera rolled her eyes at that then, wondering just how unruly her daughter was when she wasn't expecting her mother to be around. She knew why she was so independent-her Aegon had confessed to her that she reminded him of his mother when she pouted or spoke proudly and loudly and would most likely allow her to get away with anything and everything-but she didn't know the extent of it.

 

Opening the small package, Aemon saw that it was a pair of small cloak clasps, gleaming nickel with a dragon’s head forming at the bottom of a teardrop.

 

“These are beautiful. Did Princess Daena say anything else?”

 

“Only that you have to wear them at the tourney next month and that they were made by Maeserys, Smith of Hull if anyone asks.”

 

“I'm assuming you won't disappoint my daughter or this Maeserys, will you, nephew?”

 

Carefully removing and replacing the all white clasps of the Kingsguard with the dragontear clasps, Aemon handed the all white clasps to Luke. 

 

“No, Aunt Daenaera, I shall not. I suppose if I am to be a Knight of Tears and a Dragonknight, I might as well appear as both.”

 

“Wise, nephew, very wise.”

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra long POV for a new character, Daenaera Velayron.


End file.
